into the bar of the hotel for a cocktail. We sat on high stools at the bar while the barman shook the Martinis in a large nickelled shaker.
"It's funny what a wonderful gentility you get in the bar of a big hotel," I said.
"Barmen and jockeys are the only people who are polite any more."
"No matter how vulgar a hotel is, the bar is always nice."
"It's odd."
"Bartenders have always been fine."
"You know," Brett said, "it's quite true. He is only nineteen. Isn't it amazing?"
We touched the two glasses as they stood side by side on the bar. They were coldly beaded. Outside the curtained window was the summer heat of Madrid.
"I like an olive in a Martini," I said to the barman.
"Right you are, sir. There you are."
"Thanks."
"I should have asked, you know."
The barman went far enough up the bar so that he would not hear our conversation. Brett had sipped from the Martini as it stood, on the wood. Then she picked it up. Her hand was steady enough to lift it after that first sip.
"It's good. Isn't it a nice bar?"
"They're all nice bars."
"You know I didn't believe it at first. He was born in 1905. I was in school in Paris, then. Think of that."
"Anything you want me to think about it?"
"Don't be an ass. Would you buy a lady a drink?"
"We'll have two more Martinis."
"As they were before, sir?"
"They were very good." Brett smiled at him.
